There's Always Tomorrow
by Surreal13
Summary: It starts out with a cold, but no one expected how ill Peter really was. Wanton sick!Peter fic. Established P/E/N, but it's really just fluff and gen. Safe for most audiences.
1. One

**Title: **There's Always Tomorrow**  
>Chapter: <strong>Tuesday **  
>Rating:<strong> PG for some minor swearing and angst. **  
>Characters:<strong> Peter, Elizabeth, Neal **  
>Pairings:<strong> Established P/E/N, but it's pretty gen. **  
>Genre: <strong>Romance, Angst, Schmoop, sick!fic **  
>Spoilers:<strong> Up through the end of Season Three **  
>Summary: <strong>It's just a cold. And then it gets worse. Wanton sick!Peter fic, with lots of hurt and lots of comfort, with a heavy dose of schmoop. **  
>Notes:<strong> Written for rabidchild67, started almost a year ago. She requested feverish Peter, and here it is.

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><p>Peter stared at his computer screen and scowled. He'd typed the same damn sentence in three different ways and it still didn't make sense. He felt tired and out of sorts, and the headache that started brewing half-way through lunch wasn't making things any easier. It began as a dull, irritating ache that had grown into a steady throb over the past two hours. As headaches went, he supposed it wasn't too bad, but it was just enough to break his concentration and turn finishing a simple report into a major chore. Hughes wanted it by the end of the day and so far, Peter had only written a few lines.<p>

Maybe some coffee would help clear the fog and help him focus. He made his way through the bullpen, and noticed not for the first time how quiet the office was when Neal wasn't there. Peter glanced over at the empty desk and tried to quash the rather juvenile feeling of envy that Neal had a day off when he didn't. The other man had worked hard to close this case out, and he deserved to have some time away from work after two weeks of deep cover. Happily, there had been no mishaps (for once) on this operation, so there was no extra paperwork for Neal to wade through. Less work for Neal was wonderful, but Peter was the one in charge, so he got the great joy of organizing all the evidence, files and reports before handing them over to Hughes.

Just as he reached the break area, the fragrance of the stale, slightly burned coffee wafted over him. The scent triggered a revolt of his entire body. His temples heated as pain shot through his skull, his stomach heaved, and for one terrible moment, Peter feared that his lunch was about to make a return appearance. It took a couple of deep breaths and a silent mantra of I will not be sick to regain his self-control. He swallowed and grimaced at the sour taste in his mouth, and started back towards the coffee machine. There was hardly any coffee left in the pot, and it didn't seem worth the effort to try to figure out how to make more with the way his stomach felt. No more office sludge for him today.

Peter still wanted something with caffeine. The soda machine was busted, and since his stomach was so unsettled, he figured tea would be a better choice. He sidled away from the coffee maker and over to the drawer by the sink where he knew they kept the tea. It wasn't his first choice of beverage but if he was coming down with something it might soothe his…the box was empty. A quick rummage through the drawer didn't reveal any loose tea bags either, so he tossed the tea box into the recycle bin, and settled for filling his mug up with tap water before trudging back to his office. He would finish his report and go home to El and Neal.

Two Tylenol and one antacid later, he felt almost normal again. With the headache nearly gone he was able to double-check his work from earlier to correct any mistakes and finish organizing the files before he went back to work on that damnable report. Five o'clock on the dot, Peter printed everything out, relieved that the paperwork was finally done. He gathered all the files up, put them in a neat pile and trotted over to Hughes' office to deliver them. The older FBI agent looked up from his computer, the welcoming smile on his face changing to a frown as he spotted Peter in the doorway.

"Peter, are you all right?" Hughes asked, his forehead crinkling in concern as he accepted the files. He pursed his lips and looked Peter up and down with almost paternal regard. "You look a little pale."

"Eh, just a headache. Too little sleep, too much caffeine," It would have sounded more convincing if his voice hadn't cracked at the end of his sentence. Reese raised an eyebrow at him in disbelief. Peter tried not to fidget, and offered what he hoped was a bright smile as he shrugged off his boss's worry. "I took some Tylenol. I'll be fine."

"Uh-huh." Hughes looked unconvinced as Peter cleared his throat when his voice cracked again, but he accepted Peter's excuse with a nod and wave of his arm. "Good work on the Stafford case. Go home, get some rest, take care of that headache."

"Thank you, sir," Peter said politely, and fled Hughes' office with more speed than dignity. His headache was returning despite the Tylenol, and even though it was only a quarter after five, he was ready to get going. Diana and Jones were busy prepping for the new case they'd be handling in the morning, so they didn't notice him slip away. It was a bit silly that he was evading his co-workers like this but he wanted to avoid any more well-meaning but potentially embarrassing questions about his health. It was just a headache. All he needed was some sleep and the people he loved most.

It took almost an hour to reach Brooklyn in the drizzly, gray weather that cloaked the city. By the time Peter pulled up in front of the house his head was pounding and the slight nausea had made a strong comeback. It was a relief to be home and he was looking forward to a relaxed night on the couch after such a miserable day. He shut off the ignition and reached for his briefcase in the passenger seat. It wasn't there. It wasn't in the backseat either.

Peter groaned and thumped his head against the headrest as he realized he had left it back on his desk after meticulously packing some files into it. It only took him a moment to dismiss the idea of going back to the office to retrieve it. It would be a long drive and El and Neal would be waiting for him - or so he had hoped. A glance out the window showed him that most of the lights were out.

Peter wearily climbed out of the Taurus and stepped right into a puddle he hadn't noticed, drenching his feet with dirty street water. _Could this day be any worse?_Peter grumbled to himself as he trudged up the walkway, leaving a damp trail of footprints behind him. He held out a small sliver of hope that El and Neal were just napping, or taking a bath. Or maybe they were doing something that didn't require more than mood lighting. Peter fumbled with his keys and finally got the door unlocked, only to walk into a silent house.

"El? Neal?" he called, even though he knew no one was home. Except for Satchmo, of course. Satchmo raced over to him and performed a complicated waggy dance around Peter to convey happiness at seeing him. Peter patted him absently on the head and watched with tired amusement as the lab bounded between him, the back door and his food dish. Satch couldn't seem to make up his mind what he wanted more, so he trotted around the house in excitement only to plant himself at Peter's feet while he quivered in anticipation.

"Hey Satch," Peter mumbled. "Where is everyone, huh? You been alone for a while now, haven't you?" He scratched the floppy ears affectionately before peeling off his soaked socks and shoes. His feet were freezing. His greatest desire at that moment was to put something warm on, but Satchmo was doing the "I have to pee NOW!" wiggle, so he let the lab into the backyard before he made his way up the stairs.

He changed quickly, and shivered the whole time he put on his favorite sweatpants and one of his warmest sweatshirts. The blue pants and orange shirt didn't remotely match, and he was very aware that Neal and Elizabeth would have shaken their heads in despair if they'd seen him. But they weren't there, so he was going to wear whatever he wanted and not feel guilty. Peter finished the look with thick gray socks and his brown moccasin slippers. Even he knew he looked bad, but at least he was warm. It didn't matter how badly his outfit was mismatched as long as no one came to the door, since El and Neal weren't home to scold him for it. With a silent "so there!" to his absent lovers, Peter went back downstairs. He just hoped that no one would come to the door.

With Satchmo still bounding around the backyard, Peter fixed up the lab's food, and then set about looking for dinner for himself. He finally found a note from Neal and El inside the fridge, resting on a foil-covered plate. His already cranky mood hit a new low as he read Neal's showy writing. Neal and El were going out on a date, and they would probably be out late. Since the show was closer to June's, they would just stay there instead of returning to Brooklyn. Not even the little x's and o's from them lifted Peter's spirits. He wished they had at least called him to let him know they had made plans for the evening.

With a frustrated scowl, Peter tossed the note on the counter and peered under the foil to see what they'd left him to eat. Nothing appetizing as it turned out. It looked like orange chicken, which was usually his favorite, but tonight it just looked revolting and smelled worse. He hastily covered the plate back up and left it on the shelf. Nothing else looked appealing either, so he shut the fridge and decided to make toast. But first he had to let Satchmo in.

Satchmo barreled past him and raced into the house. The dog mostly ignored Peter's hand as he tried to pet him - there was only one thing Satchmo wanted now, and that was dinner. Loneliness flared briefly, sharp and hot. Peter stamped it back out just as quickly. His headache was making him mopey and ridiculous. He could call El and Neal if he really wanted them home. Satchmo wandered back over to him and stuck his head under Peter's hand, and whined.

"I know, buddy," Peter said. "I'm a grump tonight." Satch just nuzzled his hand and licked him. Unconditional love. Peter felt sappy and warmed by it. He shook his head and winced. The headache was definitely making him loopy. He would eat, and then do nothing for the rest of the night.

With the day he'd been having, he was prepared for them to be out of bread or for it to be moldy. Luck was with him this time around. _Huzzah_, he thought sarcastically, and made his toast and a banana before parking himself in front of the television. He turned the game up full volume and propped his feet up on the coffee table. It felt like petty revenge (which it was) and completely pointless (also true) since no one was around to see him like this. Still, he took vindictive pleasure in his ugly clothes and breaking all the household rules. On a day like today, he had to take the little victories.

A woman's scream jolted him out of sleep sometime later. His headache throbbed back to life as he half-jumped off the couch and grabbed the first object in reach. Peter brandished it threateningly at his unseen enemy. Disoriented, Peter floundered with his "weapon" until his mind cleared enough to realize that he was clutching the remote control, and the screaming was from the television. Another scream came from the television and Peter winced at the shrill sound as some guy swinging from a vine Tarzan style held the screaming woman. They hit a tree with a loud thud and screams were cut short as the two people fell to the ground. Peter knew there was only one thing to do - he shut the movie off before any more irritating noise made his aching head split in two.

Peter threw the remote down in disgust and staggered away from the sofa, intent on just going upstairs and crawling into bed. Satchmo hopped up from the floor and ran to the door, where he stood, wagging and panting hopefully while he stared at Peter with doleful eyes. Peter sighed, remembering that he had meant to take Satch out during the last commercial break. Obviously he'd fallen asleep before that had happened. He let the dog out and waited at the back door, shivering as the chilly air seeped into his bones.

Satch trotted back over a few minutes later, his business completed for the night. Peter shut the door with a thankful sigh and trod up the stairs, all the while ignoring how light-headed he was beginning to feel. A little sleep would fix him up. He pulled his cell from his pocket to put it on charge, and realized with some chagrin that he had five missed calls, all from Neal and El. Somehow he'd put it on silent and hadn't noticed. It was nice to know they hadn't totally forgotten about him. Even so, he felt a little put-out that they hadn't called the home phone when he failed to answer his cell.

It was unfair and shallow to be disappointed in them tonight. They went on dates all the time and he was fine, but he had a headache and he'd been alone all day at work. He wanted someone to hold onto until the pain vanished and he felt less...less like he felt at the moment. It was stupid that he felt so lonely and out of sorts when he could just call Neal and El if he wanted to. They would come home if he asked them to. It was tempting, but he shook it off.

"Pathetic, Burke. Time to cowboy up," Peter muttered. He brushed his teeth and crawled into bed, shivering in spite of the blankets piled on him, but he was too tired to get up to find another one. His head hurt so much that he wasn't sure if he'd be able to fall asleep...

The next thing he knew his alarm clock went off, the sound loud and irritating as it penetrated his fuzzy consciousness. Peter groaned in agony and tried to bury his head back into the pillow to drown out the sound. Sleep had not helped to rid him of the headache after all. In fact, his head felt worse than it had the night before, and it was accompanied by a wretched sore throat. It was tempting to call in sick and just stay in bed, but he knew he should at least make an appearance at the office to delegate tasks for the new case, if he could manage to drag himself from the shelter of his bed.

But first he wanted to shut off his damn alarm. He pawed blindly at the bedside table, which sent his cell phone, wallet and clock clattering to the floor. The Blackberry bounced a couple of times, and let out one last indignant beep before the light went out on his screen. His alarm, on the other hand, continued to torment him with its incessant beeping.

"Awww, fuck," Peter groused. He kicked off the blankets and immediately regretted it as he was exposed to the cold morning air. He scrambled back to the warmth of his bedding and suffered through another five minutes of the his alarm until he stopped shivering. Most people would have taken a hint from the universe and just stayed put, work be damned, but not Peter. He was determined to at least retrieve his brief case so he could be productive at home while he recuperated.

**~tbc**


	2. Two

**Title: **There's Always Tomorrow**  
>Chapter: <strong>Two: Wednesday Morning  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG for some minor swearing and angst. **  
>Characters:<strong> Peter, Elizabeth, Neal  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> Established P/E/N **  
>Genre: <strong>Romance, Angst, Schmoop, sick!fic **  
>Spoilers:<strong> Up through the end of Season Three **  
>Summary: <strong>It's just a cold. And then it isn't. Wanton sick!Peter fic, with lots of hurt and lots of comfort, with a heavy dose of schmoop. **  
>Notes:<strong> Written for rabidchild67, started almost a year ago. I had...issues. Her request was a feverish Peter, which I delivered on - and a whole lot more. I will be posting up new segments every week, but at this point I don't know how it will all divide up. -fails at organization-

Thanks to ericadawn16 and kinky-sprite who read this and helped me get this back in shape. Big thanks to sonia6349 for medical knowledge. I'm sure I still got everything wrong, but I appreciated all your help!

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><p>Peter managed to get ready for work without further mishap, though he felt like he was moving in slow motion. It seemed to take a long time to get showered and changed, and every movement sapped a little more of his strength. Even putting his socks on took extra effort, as if he was swimming through molasses. Tying his shoes was worse; this time when he bent down, all the pressure from his headache slammed into the front of his skull.<p>

The white-hot pain stole his breath, and he squeezed his eyes shut to block out the light, which suddenly seemed too bright. The torturous thrumming in his head was accompanied by Satchmo's anxious bark from somewhere down the hall. The sound seemed to reverberate in his skull and it took several long moments before Peter felt he could sit up again without throwing up.

It occurred to Peter that he should probably just stay home and rest. Neal could always bring his briefcase home after work. It was a tempting thought, and Peter cast a longing gaze at his bed. Then he shook it off. He had already gotten dressed; he might as well just go in and pick up his case himself. Maybe he would pick up a few extra files to peruse while he was sick...and sit in on the briefing for the next case for a minute or two, just to make sure it got started off in the right direction.

Peter took a moment to catch his breath and let his headache subside, from agonizing into something slightly more tolerable. While he waited, he fiddled with his Blackberry. The phone refused to even turn on. Jones was good with electronics. Maybe he could fix it. Peter pocketed the stubborn phone in defeat and rubbed his throbbing temples.

He needed to get going, but a sad whimper at the door made him realize that he had yet to take care of Satchmo. Peter trudged down the stairs, with Satchmo hot on his heels. The dog almost tripped him on the way down and he had to catch himself on the banister so he didn't tumble down the last five steps. "Satch, behave," Peter groaned. Even the light jangle of Satchmo's dog tag made his head pulse with pain.

Fifteen minutes later he was out the door, a thermos of tea clutched in his hands. Satchmo had eaten and gone out, while Peter had poked around the kitchen for something for breakfast. After a quick rummage, he had decided to forgo food; making toast had seemed like a daunting task and he had no appetite to speak of. Instead, he'd made tea for himself to take to work, let Satchmo in, and after a pat good-bye to the lab, made his way to the car.

It wasn't until a few minutes later that he glanced at the clock and realized he was going to be late to work. His phone was busted, but at least he had the Ford SYNC system as backup. When the contact menu popped up, he scrolled through the contacts until he found Hughes's number, and pressed 'call'. The phone rang twice before the director's gruff voice said, "This is Hughes".

"Hey, Hughes. It's -" Peter's voice was almost unrecognizable, even to him. It was thick and strained from his sore throat, and as he spoke, his words faded into silence. He tried to clear his throat, and ended up in a painful coughing fit instead. Over his dry wheezing, he could hear Hughes.

"Peter is that you? You sound terrible. I presume you're calling off for the day." Hughes didn't sound like he was asking Peter so much as telling him that he was going to stay home. Peter bit his lip as he finally caught his breath.

"Uhh, not exactly," Peter said. He could practically hear his boss's eyeroll over the phone. "I'm already half-way there. I was just calling to say that I'm running late."

Hughes sighed, the exasperation evident. "You could turn around," the other man pointed out. "I'd rather you not infect the whole office with your cold, Peter."

"I know," Peter assured him. "I'll just get my briefcase and some files. I won't stay. Long."

There was another silence on the other end. Hughes was probably rolling his eyes again. "I'll see you in a few," Peter said, and hung up before his boss could protest any more.

* * *

><p>Neal was in an excellent mood from his day off. He'd slept in, then spent the morning painting the New York skyline. June had come up to the apartment around eleven with brunch. They ate together and chatted before she surprised him with tickets to the theater. She had planned to go with a friend, but unfortunately, something had come up and the plans had to be put on hold for another time.<p>

After June's visit, Neal had sprinted off to see Elizabeth. They'd gone out to eat before the theater, and then he and Elizabeth had spent the night at his place. He'd woken this morning, sated and happy, with Elizabeth still tangled around him. It was a good way to start the day. The only thing that had been missing was Peter. Neal fully intended to resolve that issue as soon as possible. There was a little storage closet in the office that was rarely used -

He was normally more attentive to his surroundings, but he was distracted with thoughts of what he could do with Peter in the closet. Neal was so preoccupied that he almost bumped into Jones, who was waiting for the elevator. Jones looked him up and down and smirked.

"Someone's in a good mood. Did you have a good day off while the rest of us poor saps had to work?" the agent inquired with a teasing nudge as they got onto the elevator together.

"Good morning, Very Special Agent Clinton Jones," Neal responded with a wide smile. "I had a very good day off. But I missed you." He batted his lashes playfully at Jones. The other man laughed. "So what happened while I was gone? Excitement and intrigue?"

Jones grunted. "I wish. The office was boring yesterday with - " Neal grinned at him and raised his brows expectantly, waiting for Jones to admit that he made the office more fun. "With Peter stuck doing a mountain of paperwork, while Diana and I did the prep for this new mortgage fraud case. We're hoping you can use your Caffrey magic to solve it for us so we can move onto something more exciting," Jones explained. "It didn't help that Peter left early. He was trying to sneak out but I saw him before he left. He looked kind of pale. I think he's sick."

Some of Neal's good mood vanished. Peter was sick? Was that why he hadn't responded to any of their phone calls? It was possible that Jones had simply thought Peter looked pale just because Peter had left early. And what was early anyway? Five minutes? Everyone in the white collar division was a workaholic; early to them sometimes meant seven in the evening. It was probably nothing.

"Did he seem like he was sick, or was he just wanting to get home early for the game?" Neal attempted to keep his voice light and disinterested, while internally he was fretting about Peter. All he could think of was that Peter had left early because he was sick. Peter had been sick, and Neal had been off with his wife. He had been with Elizabeth, laughing and making love to her and Peter had been sick and alone. What if Peter had been so sick that he couldn't call them?

Jones raised a skeptical eyebrow at his attempt to sound casual. "It could have been that he was just sick of paperwork. You can ask him when we get up to the office." Jones's attempt to placate him did not work. They reached the office, and Neal gave a polite but distracted farewell to Jones as he rushed into the bullpen. A quick scan around the room made his heart sink; he didn't see Peter anywhere. However, he did see Hughes standing at his desk.

"Caffrey," Hughes greeted him. By the director's standards, it sounded almost friendly. "Here are the files on this mortgage fraud case. I need you to look it over and see if you can come up with some good leads before Peter comes in. You have about twenty minutes."

Relief flooded Neal. Hughes must have talked to Peter this morning. He wanted to ask, but he thought the question might sound odd. As far as he knew (and hoped), his relationship with the Burkes was still unknown, and they all preferred to keep it that way for now. If he got too curious, Hughes might think a little too hard on why he was asking questions.

"I'll get right on that, sir." Neal replied. He wondered why Hughes wanted this done before Peter came in, but of course, the answer was obvious; the director didn't want to give Peter a reason to stay. The idea that Peter was actually sick amused Neal more than it alarmed him. Now that he knew his lover had at least spoken to someone, he could relax.

Neal settled into reading the file and was soon absorbed in it. It looked like a simple case, but there were some intriguing layers. As he started to read the contracts, he realized that the person who had drawn the papers up had cleverly worded things to go in favor of the bank, if the right judge received the case. Neal followed the trail and decided the judge might be clean, but a few clerks most likely not.

Satisfied that he had found a few solid leads, Neal set his pen down and surveyed the notes he'd made. It would be a good place to start, at least. He looked at the clock and realized with dismay that it was almost eleven. Peter must have walked right by him and he hadn't even noticed. Neal's gaze went immediately to the office, and yes, there he was. Peter was sitting as his desk, but Neal couldn't tell if Peter was actually doing any work or not. He gathered his notes and file into a somewhat messy pile, then trotted up the stairs to Peter's office.

Peter was sitting at the desk, staring down at a file. He had a pen and pad at the ready, but it looked like he hadn't even attempted to write anything down. Neal bit his lip, concerned at the tired slump of Peter's shoulders and the paleness of the man's skin.

"Hey," Neal said softly, as he entered without bothering to knock. Peter looked up slowly, and gave him a tired smile. Neal dropped into the chair across from Peter's desk and handed him the file and the notes. Peter squinted at the writing and rubbed his head, as if it was hurting him, before looking back at Neal.

"Hey. Is this your lead?" Exhaustion seeped into Peter's rough, congested voice. He grabbed a tissue from box on the desk and covered his mouth just as a harsh cough started. To Neal's untrained eye, it looked like the coughing jag had to hurt. Peter was almost doubled over, and his skin turned an odd ashen color, while his cheeks flushed bright red from his exertions. Finally, Peter was done. He tossed the tissue into the trash as he tried to read Neal's notes, but it was a losing battle; Peter gave up after the merest glance at the paper.

"Yeah...I think it may be the court clerks working with someone in the bank, though I haven't narrowed the bank suspects down yet," Neal said. He watched Peter struggle to digest the information, and his heart squeezed in his chest. Peter was obviously miserable. Neal had no idea what had possessed the man to come into work, when he was so obviously ill. It was tempting to reach over and grasp Peter's hand, but with the glass walls he couldn't. Neal settled for leaning forward, before he finally asked as gently as he could, "Peter, why don't you go home? I think you're too sick to be here."

"I know. I was waiting for you. Would you go with me? I'm not sure I should be driving around alone," was Peter's hoarse response. Neal opened his mouth, prepared to argue with him, until he realized that his partner was agreeing with him. That, more than anything else, alarmed him. Then the rest of what Peter said caught up with him.

"You want me to go home with you?" Neal asked. Peter nodded, winced, and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, as if even that small movement had caused him terrible pain. That settled it; Neal would just have to convince the director to let him go for today. Peter was obviously too ill to be alone, and Elizabeth was meeting with an important client.

"Let me give this stuff to Hughes, and then we can go," Neal said. He sincerely hoped for Peter's sake that Hughes would let him go. He marched into the director's office, files and notes in hand, with a list of arguments to let him leave already forming in his mind.

He didn't need them. Hughes was obviously concerned about Peter's health - and was also eager to see him leave the office before everyone else got sick. "Get him out of here. I don't care what you have to do to get him to leave, but I want him gone in five minutes," Hughes said as just as Neal opened his mouth to speak. "We'll take it from here for today."

"Oh good," Neal said, his shoulders sagging in relief. "I don't think I'll have to work too hard to convince him to leave. Sir, I think I found a connection in our case."

"I'm sure I can figure it out. Your notes are excellent. Go on, now," Hughes urged. He obviously didn't want to give Peter too much time to change his mind. "And Caffrey...good work." Neal looked back at the stern agent and received a rare smile before the man turned his attention to the notes, a clear dismissal.

Peter was slumped in his chair, head propped up on a hand, eyes closed. He wasn't even attempting to pretend to be well, and that frightened Neal more than he expected. It didn't seem that Peter had even noticed that he'd returned, until the agent opened his eyes and asked, "Did Hughes ok you going home with me?"

Neal winced at the rawness of Peter's voice, but he put on a wide smile and held his arms out to hide his concern. "Well it took some arguing, but I finally convinced him to let us go. You ready?" Neal asked. Peter nodded and heaved himself onto unsteady legs. Hughes had called a meeting for the team, and most of them were too distracted to notice Peter and Neal exiting the office. It was fortunate, because Peter needed to lean against Neal, and he kept trying to a hold of Neal in a thoroughly unprofessional manner. The heat that poured off Peter's flesh worried Neal even more, and he spent the elevator ride down to the first floor trying to convince Peter to go to the doctor.

"They'll just say I have the flu. Waste of money and time," Peter croaked as they got out of the elevator and left the building. His voice was nearly gone now, the usually powerful voice a mere thread of sound. A cool wind blew around them, and even though Peter was wearing a jacket, he shivered. Even after the breeze died down, Peter continued to tremble. There wasn't much Neal could do for him until they got to the Burke's home, so he walked silently with Peter and let his partner use him for support until they reached the car. Peter fumbled with the keys, and after two unsuccessful attempts to unlock the car, he handed the keys to Neal.

"Don't make me regret this," Peter said. Neal stared at the keys, surprise warring with concern, not to mention an entirely improper amount of glee. Peter was going to let him drive? But wait, that meant... Peter rocked back on his heels and raised his eyebrows at Neal, as if he could read his thoughts. "Yes, I'm too sick to drive. Yes, I know you're excited. No, I am not going to the doctor, and no, this is not going to be a new habit. This is the only time I'm ever letting you drive. Ever. Got it? Now, if you're done reflecting, I'd like to go home."

It was the longest statement Peter had made all day, and it was so very Peter, that Neal felt a little more relieved. Peter was probably right; it was just the flu or a nasty cold. What he needed was rest - not to be standing outside while Neal geeked out over being allowed to drive. Neal grinned and unlocked the car doors. "Well, what are you waiting for?" Peter shot him a water-eyed glare and slid into the passenger seat, where he seemed to immediately crumble. As quickly as Peter had regained some of his energy, it had dissipated just as fast.

"But I think you should allow me to drive at least once a week," Neal teased. He wanted to rouse Peter a little more, to hear him snarl and snap at him, because the worn, sickly pallor of his partner frightened him.

"Mmm," Peter responded. His eyes snapped open and he sat up so suddenly that Neal jumped.

"What? What's wrong? Are you all right?" Neal asked, his heart hammering away in his chest.

"I left my briefcase," Peter said. "Did you get it?"

"You almost gave me a heart attack because you left your briefcase?" Neal demanded. "No, I didn't bring your briefcase. You're sick, remember?"

"I came in to get my briefcase," Peter snapped, sounding cranky and petulant as they drove away from the parking garage. "I need it."

"You came in feeling like this to get your briefcase? And I'm the one you accuse of doing stupid things?" Neal asked. Peter tried to scowl at him and ended up yawning instead. Neal softened ever so slightly. It wasn't like he made a great patient himself; he could remember plenty of times when he'd been scolded for trying to do too much when he was ill.

"Would've called you, but cell phone broke. Don't know why I didn't use the home phone. Stupid," Peter murmured. He looked over at Neal with a troubled gaze. "I was lonely yesterday. You and El didn't call."

Neal opened his mouth to protest, but he couldn't. They had called Peter's cell phone. They hadn't bothered to call work, certain that he'd be busy, and they really hadn't thought to call the home phone. They'd been a little drunk and a little too eager to enjoy their evening. No matter how long he'd been dating them, Neal always seemed to forget that it was Peter who needed the extra reassurance in the relationship.

"I'm sorry, Peter. We should have called." Peter looked away from him and shrugged, obviously embarrassed to have let on how lonely he'd been last night. It sucked to be sick and be alone, Neal knew. Guilt, the kind Mozzie was always warning him about, started to eat away at him. "I can always go your briefcase tomorrow," he offered quietly, a small token of apology.

If they hadn't been stopped at a red light, Neal might not have heard Peter's faint agreement. "There's always tomorrow," the agent agreed, accepting the offer without further comment. Peter smiled at Neal as he laced his fingers with Neal's and sank back onto the seat, sound asleep before the traffic started moving again.

"Yeah," Neal agreed with the sleeping man, and squeezed his hand. "There's always tomorrow."

**~tbc**


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **There's Always Tomorrow  
><strong>Chapter: <strong>Wednesday Afternoon  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG for some minor swearing and angst.  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Peter, Elizabeth, Neal  
><strong>Pairings:<strong> Established P/E/N  
><strong>Genre: <strong>Romance, Angst, Schmoop, sick!fic  
><strong>Spoilers:<strong> Up through the end of Season Three  
><strong>Summary: <strong>It's just a cold. And then it isn't. Wanton sick!Peter fic, with lots of hurt and lots of comfort, with a heavy dose of schmoop.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Written for **rabidchild67**, started almost a year ago. I had...issues. So anyway, this is the first part of her long over-due fic about a feverish Peter.

Thanks to **elrhiarhodan** , **ericadawn16**, **kinky_sprite** and others who helped me look this part over. Big thanks to **sonia6349** for medical knowledge. I'm sure I still got everything wrong, but I appreciated all your help!

* * *

><p>Neal kept a close eye on Peter on the ride back to Brooklyn. Peter was pale, but a flush was rising on his cheeks, and the hand Neal was holding was warmer than it should have been. The first five minutes, Peter seemed to be resting easily, but soon he was shifting in his seat as if he were uncomfortable. The first coughing fit hit soon after. Neal listened with growing concern as the cough quickly went from a few dry hacks to deeper, more painful sounding gasps for air. They had reached Brooklyn by then, but Neal still decided to pull over. He knew instinctively that if he didn't call for reinforcements now, Peter would be stubborn and difficult to get back out of the house. Since he didn't know the number for Peter's doctor, he called Elizabeth with the SYNC as he pulled into a parking lot.<p>

Beside him, Peter stirred sluggishly and sat up a little straighter. He blinked, and turned to Neal with a confused expression. "Are we home?" he asked with a sniffle. He fished around in the glove compartment for a slightly crumpled but clean napkin to wipe his nose. His voice was worse than before, thick with congestion and pain.

"No, not yet," Neal replied, certain now that he was doing the right thing. Elizabeth would be able to convince Peter to go to the doctors. If Peter hadn't been getting worse so rapidly, Neal might not have pushed the issue, but Peter was barely able to keep his eyes open against the light. It was best to just get some help. There was no answer at El's office, so Neal plugged in her cell number next.

"Wait, are you calling El? No, don't..." Peter protested. There was a click as Elizabeth picked up the phone. Peter sighed and leaned his head against the window.

"Hey, hon," Elizabeth happily greeted. "Are you having a good day?"

Peter lifted his head a little and shot Neal a dirty look, which Neal ignored as he spoke up. "Hey El, it's Neal."

"Oh, hey," some of the cheeriness dropped from Elizabeth's voice, and was replaced with a concerned edge. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes," Peter said, but his voice broke off into a painful silence.

"Peter is sick," Neal said quickly, over Peter's faint protest to the contrary. He loved Peter, but the man could be a stubborn ass at times. For a man filled with so much commonsense, he could be appalling dim-witted in certain areas. "I think he should go to the doctor."

"Oh no!" El clucked over the phone. "Peter, honey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. Not much," Peter amended when Neal rolled his eyes. "Just a sore throat, headache. I think it's the flu." He had tried to make his voice sound stronger for Elizabeth, but based on the silence from the other line, Neal had a feeling she wasn't fooled. Peter had drawn the same conclusion, and sent Neal another dirty look. Neal just grinned back at him, unashamed of tattling on Peter.

"Let me call the doctor," Elizabeth said after a moment. "I'll call you back with the appointment time." She disconnected with them before either man could speak. Peter sighed again, but it sounded more weary than exasperated to Neal's ears, and when he looked over at him, it confirmed his suspicions. Peter looked miserable, his eyes dull with pain and fever. When Neal reached over to feel his forehead, Peter leaned into his touch and closed his eyes.

"I just want to go to bed," Peter murmured. "I don't think I have the energy for the doctor."

"All the more reason for you to go," Neal replied with gentle concern. "Let us take care of you."

Peter was silent for a few seconds, a scowl on his face. Just when Neal thought that he was going to have to argue with his stubborn partner, Peter blew out a gust of air and looked at Neal with pursed lips. "You do not get to fluff my pillows," he warned. It was as good as a concession as Neal was going to get.

"It'll be worse than that. I'm going to fluff your pillows and I'm going to make you drink tea," Neal threatened as he poked at the GPS on the dashboard. "What's the name of your doctor?"

"What are you doing?" Peter demanded. "Stop fooling around with that!"

"I'm not fooling around," Neal replied defensively. "I'm looking up where your doctor is so I can drive us there."

"I don't have an appointment yet, and hey, I'm sitting right here. I can give you directions," Peter pointed out. Neal made a sound that was suspiciously close to a scoff, and proceeded to ignore him as he poked a few more things on the screen, just to see what would happen.

"I'm driving, therefore I get to play with the buttons," was Neal's gleeful response as he set the radio onto music from the forties. Peter groaned and leaned his head back.

"Neal!"

* * *

><p>True to her word, Elizabeth called back a few minutes later. Since the doctor had no open appointments, they decided that Peter should go to the urgent care clinic instead. Peter was quiet on the way to the office, though he didn't fall asleep. They walked in together, with Peter pressing up against him as if he were cold.<p>

At the front desk, Peter spoke with the receptionist, who was brisk but sympathetic with him as she took his name and his complaints. She handed him a clipboard with a sheaf of papers and instructed him on how to fill the papers out, and to get his license and insurance card ready for her to use. Peter nodded, but looked as if most of what she had said went over his head. Neal guided him to the seating area and tried to take the clipboard from him, but Peter stubbornly refused to give it up. He squinted down at the pages, and rubbed his hand against his temple. After watching Peter suffer just by writing his name down, Neal took the clipboard from Peter and started to fill in the information for him.

"Wait, you know my social security number and my health insurance card ID number?" Peter demanded. Neal ignored him and filled in the rest of the information, complete with Peter's signature at the bottom of the page.

"Did you just forge my signature? I thought we had that discussion already," Peter grumbled as Neal got up to return the papers to the woman at the front desk.

"Did you really want to look at that paper again?" Neal asked dryly. Peter shook his head and reached in his pocket for his wallet. He frowned, went to look in the other pocket, and realized that Neal already had it in his hand. Peter just heaved a long-suffering sigh and waved him off. With the process of getting Peter in to see the actual doctor started, the two men sat in silence.

Neal thumbed through an old Home and Gardens magazine, while Peter leaned against him and seemed to doze. There were three people in front of them, so the wait was fairly long - long enough for Neal to learn how to reorganize the mudroom to not only be functional but also beautiful. He was halfway through an article on how to create a whimsical garland (perfect for mantles or doorways), when Peter's name was finally called.

Peter moved slowly, as if his whole body ached, and when he finally stood, he swayed on his feet. "Are you all right?" Neal asked, slightly alarmed at how white Peter's face was. Peter reached out for him, and Neal helped steady him before he rose to his feet as well.

"I've got you," Neal said. Peter sniffled, then swallowed with great difficulty. Just watching him made Neal wince with sympathy.

"Thanks," Peter murmured. "Could you..."

"Of course," Neal slipped an arm around Peter's shoulders and let Peter lean against him. The nurse took one look at Peter and didn't bother to protest when Neal started to walk back with them.

Once the doctor came in the room, it didn't take long for him to make a diagnosis. "Swollen lymph nodes...fever of 101.9..." He took one peek into Peter's throat and nodded. "Lesions on back of throat. Looks like strep." He did a throat swab just to be certain, much to Peter's dismay. When that indignity was over, the doctor jotted a few notes down and looked up.

"When the lab results come in, I'll call in a prescription for him. For now, alternate between ibuprofen and tylenol to help with the pain. No hot liquids - room temperature or something cool will be best. And just let him rest. That will be the best thing for him. If he isn't feeling better in a few days, give us a call," the doctor explained to Neal. Peter was listening but Neal wasn't sure if Peter was really paying any attention.

"Thanks," Neal said. Once the doctor was gone, Neal gently urged Peter back to his feet. "Come on, babe, let's get you home."

* * *

><p>Neal plopped the bag from the pharmacy on the kitchen counter, and went to get a mug to make Peter some tea. The lab results had come in forty minutes ago: it was definitely strep. Neal had made sure Peter was still resting comfortably before he ran out to pick up his medication, and pick up a few other supplies as well. Neal had everything he could think of; cough medicine, throat lozenges, several types of tea, an assortment of soups, and Peter's favorite ice cream.<p>

He put the ice cream away, and then read the instructions for the antibiotic while he waited for the water to heat. The medication needed to be taken with food, so Neal decided to make some soup for Peter. It could cool quickly, and would be gentle on his throat.

When the food was ready, Neal arranged it all on a tray, and carried it upstairs. Peter was buried under a pile of blankets, so deeply asleep that he didn't hear Neal set the tray on the dresser. Neal sat on the bed beside Peter and brushed back a few strands of Peter's hair. Peter was sweating, his skin hot to the touch, and he leaned into Neal's hand as if it felt good against his burning flesh. Neal hated to wake Peter but it was important to get him to take the antibiotics, and to get some fluids so he could rehydrate.

"Hey, babe," Neal said as he continued to caress Peter's forehead. Peter let out a muffled groan as he started to wake up. He wiped a hand across his face and peered up at Neal with bleary eyes. The combination of rumpled hair and the sleepy expression on his partner's face tugged at Neal's heart. If Peter hadn't been so sick, Neal would have found it irresstibly adorable.

"I brought you your medicine, and some food. Do you think you can eat?" Neal asked.

"Eh," was the unenthusiastic reply. Peter sat up with effort, and didn't argue when Neal helped him sit up. He even allowed Neal to fluff his pillows to help prop him up. Neal settled the tray over Peter's lap with a flourish. Peter smiled and obediently set to work on the soup, to please Neal.

"Your medication says you need to eat with it," Neal said when Peter set the spoon down after only a few spoonfuls. Peter made a face but tried for a little more soup before he finally gave up, and decided to take his pill. He had a hard time swallowing it, even after drinking half a mug of tea, and when he finally manged to get the pill down, he'd lost all interest in eating. Peter pushed his spoon around for a few minutes, but couldn't seem to bring himself to take even one more bite, so Neal cleared the tray away.

"Are you feeling any better?" Neal asked as he tucked the blankets back around Peter's shoulders. Peter shook his head, his expression miserable. "Ok, go back to sleep. I'll be nearby if you need anything, all right?"

Peter waved his hand a little to acknowledge Neal's words before he snuggled back under the covers. It didn't take long for him to fall asleep, fortunately, and once he was sure Peter was resting again, Neal gathered up the tray and quietly left the room.

**~tbc**


End file.
